


I Have Come to the Borders of Sleep

by ninaunn



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Destroy Ending, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-War, Romantic Friendship, Spectre Requisitions Rare Pair Exchange, normandy crew - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Cortez greeted the aftermath of the Reaper War from a creaky hospital bed in some corner of Whitechapel, cursing his fractured leg and damaged ribs had kept him off the Normandy for that last, fateful push.</p><p>No crash, no last transmission. The Normandy and it’s crew, and it’s Commander, had vanished in the deluge of the Reaper’s demise. Again he had survived. Again he’d been left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Come to the Borders of Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoddessTiera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessTiera/gifts).



_The unfathomable deep_  
_Forest where all must lose_  
_Their way, however straight,_  
_Or winding, soon or late;_  
_They cannot choose._  
\- Lights Out, by Edward Thomas

.

.

It was a hard thing, to look at the end of a war you expected to die in and not expect it to be a hoax.

Steve Cortez greeted the aftermath of the Reaper War from a creaky hospital bed in some corner of Whitechapel, cursing the fractured leg and damaged ribs that had kept him off the Normandy for that last, fateful push.

He did not remember much from after the shuttle (his shuttle, damn it) had been shot down. Only the rank smell of burning eezo and the sound of klaxons as he clawed his way out of the mangled shell of metal while Steve prayed to god it wouldn’t go up in flames with him still in it.

Vega had something to do with that, he was sure. Even through the smoke and screaming, Steve would be hard pressed to forget that mountain of muscle hoisting him over a shoulder like a bag of beans.

Steve leant his head back on the hospital pillow and listened to the night symphony that was the sirens of London and the wheezy breathing of his room-mate. It wasn’t relaxing, and he sucked his teeth as he stared at the cracked ceiling.

He should have been on the Normandy.

A familiar lump in his throat rolled over and Steve blinked back tears. They were as useless as he was at the moment. 

Dammit.

From his bed, the orange light of street-lamps seeped over the flaking walls. He thought of Shepard as he’d last seen her; mouth grim and eyes afire before she leapt out of the shuttle with her fire-team and into a pit of Reapers. He thought of Robert; that quick last kiss goodbye before he boarded the ship bound for the remote station that would save his life. Sweet with life and love.

After dumping his battered self with an ambulance team, Vega had patted his cheek and told him to keep fighting before charging off with Doctor T’Soni and the others.

_“Glad we found you first, cuate.”_

_“I love you, but I know you. Don’t make me an anchor.”_

_“Now! Go! Go!”_

Robert was gone. Shepard was gone. The Normandy was gone too, along with James and Traynor and Joker and the rest. Their last words bounced around his strung out mind.

No crash, no last transmission. The Normandy and it’s crew, and it’s Commander, had vanished in the deluge of the Reaper’s demise.

And Steve was stuck grinding his teeth, on a shitty bed in a hospital fill to bursting and again, again he had survived.

Again he’d been left behind.

.

.

There’d been a moment, on the Citadel, where’d he’d almost fooled himself into being reckless.

After the biotic-ball game and too many (yet not nearly enough) beers, Steve and Vega had stumbled out of the apartment to let Shepard and her partner enjoy the rest of the night. Somehow, the notion of clubbing had seem wildly appealing, and the two had caught a sky-cab and swaggered into Flux like eon-old sentient robots weren’t trying to exterminate them all.

“All right,” Vega had grinned, slapping his back as he eyed the dancers. “Time to cut loose now Lola’s not here, eh Esteban?”

His hand stayed heavy and warm on Steve’s shoulder as they knocked back something bright green and vile. Hot prickles buzzed up his arms and cheeks, and the bar was crowded and close and noisy.

“Don’t tell me the Commander scares you into good behaviour?” Steve laughed, yelling to be heard over the pulsing beat making his bones hum.

“Shit yeah, she does!” Vega’s eyes are round like saucers in his unbridled enthusiasm. Sweat dotted his temples, and neon light cut across his beautiful, broad nose. “Did you see Lola on Rannoch?”

“I drove the shuttle, you lunk,” he countered, waving at the frazzled barkeep for two more drinks. “I had a prime view of your arse shaking at the sight of it.”

“Nah, shaking at the sight of Shepard,” Vega smiled. Bodies jostled against them and James’ teeth were very white in the strobe-light and it had been so long since Steve had noticed things that that. He was flummoxed as to how to respond.

The barkeep set two shot glasses before them, set the drinks on fire and smirked at the awe in their eyes.

“Salud!” Vega roared and Steve cheered with him, before doubling over in a coughing fit. He’d drunk all manner of alien liquor, but nothing had burned like the fires of hell were in his throat; whatever had been in that drink was spicy.

“Can’t fault you though.”

Hands on knees and still trying to catch his breath, Steve looked up at the bulky silhouette of his friend and blinked.

“For what?” He asked, wiping his brow.

“For watching my arse!” Vega boasted, bringing up his arms and twisting his torso to show off. Steve laughed, for all that he admired the marine’s physique. Never mind the hot thrum that suddenly pulsed through him like a beat.

Strange. Or not so.

Steve shook his head; at James, at himself.

“Only you would think that,” he said instead, wiping his palms against his trousers. Vega winked over one bulging bicep. 

Soon after they were dragged to the dancefloor by some off duty Alliance soldiers that Vega vaguely knew. There were a lot more strange drinks (what the hell was a Frozen Pyjak anyway?), and a lot more dancing (he’d not danced so much in years). Throughout, the fierce dashes and slicks of the DJ kept his blood pumping and Steve had not felt so young and reckless in a long time.

Despite the close bodies and flailing limbs, a strange kind thread of connection bound him to James. They kept in eye contact, despite the jumping and twisting and occasionally pretty distraction. Kept each other’s backs. The dance always wound them together again.

Vega caught him watching and leant past the asari he’d been dancing with to ask if Steve was ok, hazel eyes soft with concern and heat and sweat pouring off him.

Steve was almost, almost reckless.

Almost.

.

.

So. No war and no Shepard and no Normandy. Just a whole lot of mess, and it didn’t take the Alliance long to realise just how much they had to clean up.

Steve Cortez stepped out of the patchwork building of the Royal London Hospital and tried not to choke on the dust swept streets. The fallout from whatever miracle Shepard had pulled out of her pockets lay thick on all of Earth. He wondered, idly, what the Thames looked like now.

Hand gripped tight on his crutch, Steve limped out of the taped and braced doors to meet the Alliance soldier sent to pick him up. She looked as drained as he felt, for all her rod straight spine; would anyone ever look young again?

Still, Hackett had not forgotten him. Not when he could still serve his planet.

They didn’t talk much in the car; most people got an odd look in their eyes when they heard who exactly he’d served under. His roommate at the hospital had hesitantly asked specifically vague questions about the woman who was now hailed as Defender of the Galaxy (what was she like or did you ever see her fight).

Steve massaged his aching thigh as watched a nigh unrecognisable city speed by. 

Ash still coated every surface, and large dark wounds lay stark in the battered architecture. Krogan clearing debris from streets as Alliance and turian soldiers rigged up scaffolding. Local civilians looked on in muddled awe and confusion. A few brave souls pitched in.

What a world they had now. 

He wondered what James would have said at the sight. Probably that he’d prefer a hot beach in the tropics.

Steve thought he agreed.

.

.

“How’s she looking?”

Cortez looked up from where he was embedded in the bowels of the Kodiak to see Vega and his rolling gait exit the elevator. But, oh he did not look good. Still in his sweat-stained under-suit from the last mission, a dark bruise stained Vega’s jaw. A familiar looking bottle hung from one bandaged hand. 

Steve bit the inside of his cheek, only to curse at the spark at his fingers from a crossed wire.

“A little worse for wear,” he said instead, sucking on his burned finger-tips. Out of the corner of his eyes, Steve watched Vega drag himself onto a nearby crate. “The inertia dampeners are playing up. Nothing a bit of TLC won’t fix.” 

Vega nodded like he expected no less, and tipped his head back for a long swig out of the bottle. 

Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Steve looked at the jumbled mess of tech before him, and considered making it a day. It had been a long one, after all. Even second hand, the shit on Horizon was enough to make anyone’s blood run cold.

The Kodiak, his sweet, solid little Kodiak, had given Steve enough work to distract from the new slew of horrors cooked up by Cerberus. Glancing back at his friend, it seemed Vega had sought something a little more liquid to work his woes out.

“You ok?”

Vega shrugged, and the action seemed loud in the quiet belly of the cargo hold.

“Ok?” A small gasp hissed through his teeth. “Yeah, Esteban. Sure I am.” 

Leaning back from the dampeners, Steve chewed over the echo of Vega’s joviality, the flat wall of his eyes. Shrugging himself, the pilot pulled the grease-streaked towel tucked into his back pocket and wiped his hands clean. 

“Breaking into the tequila early today?” He asked over his shoulder, casual as could be.

A small series of huffs that were almost but not quite a chuckle, escaped from James Vega’s massive chest.

“How could you tell?” A sad hitch tilted Vega’s voice, and Steve swallowed hard. He was familiar with the sort of emotion that could choke a throat up like that.

Looking down at his hands, he considered how tense Shepard’s expression had been during the pick-up. How quiet her usually quick-tongued squad had been on the flight back. Steve had no illusions that the complex they’d left behind was little more than a mass grave. Even their sparse victory could not counter that kind of cost.

He flexed his fingers, and thought of how James had avoided meeting his eyes when he brought them back into the cradle of the Normandy.

“You haven’t flexed once since you came in,” Steve said, easing himself to standing.

“Heh.” Vega barely responded, only swirled the liquor in the bottle some.

“It was pretty rough down there,” continued the pilot, stepping softly as he approached Vega. The round lines of the marine’s shoulders were sunk down in despondence, short lashes thick against his cheek from his lowered gaze.

It wasn’t right; if James Vega had one best skill it was rolling with the punches. What Steve saw hanging over his friend now looked frighteningly like despair, and that could not be left to fester. Not in this war; they did not have the luxury.

“Yeah, no kidding,” whispered Vega. Steve didn’t think he’d ever heard him sound so faint. “I won’t be sleeping ever again.”

Air whistled over cut teeth and the marine took another long drink from the bottle.

“Vega,” Steve said, chest tight at the wet sigh that rippled over Vega’s body. “James.”

When finally he looked up, distinctive wet tracks ran down his mottled face. Steve bit his tongue, because what could he say? Sanctuary had been nothing short of a nightmare. 

Like the Reapers. Weathered soldiers like Javik and Shepard might be able to hold the horror in, but James’ heart was too large to not be wounded. 

“They were families, with kids,” he rasped. “Just hoping for safety.”

James Vega was far from alright. James Vega was close to crumbling, and Steve would be damned if he was going to let that happen.

Steve Cortez pulled the tequila bottle from James’ trembling fingers and placed it delicately on the floor. Steve Cortez pulled on the damp collar of James’ suit and dragged him off the crate he’d been perched on and into a rough and awkward embrace.

A sob erupted against his neck, and Steve held the back of James’ head with one hand, wrapped the other around his muscular torso and shushed soothing noises to counter the distress. Vega, curled in on himself, fingers sunk into Steve’s shirt, wept noisily.

There were no real words that could be said. They were both soldiers. They both knew the heavy toll of war. But they were human too, as they rocked together in sorrow in the cargo hold.

Steve knew well that to be human was to hurt.

.

.

Steve Cortez was not on the Normandy when Shepard shot the Reapers to a deep, dark oblivion. He was sure as hell there to see the Normandy land in Ipswich, dragged in limping by the SSV Sekigahara. 

The Normandy, and he swore as he studied it’s battered hull. 

Twelve months. Almost twelve fucking months of silence. Twelve months of flying dextro-food supply runs and surveillance on rogue krogan and piecing together his shattered soul for again, again being left behind by those he held close, and Steve wanted to shout or curse or cheer and just be angry.

He did none of those things. He instead stood patiently behind Major Coats and bit down the urge to tap his leg or jig his foot. Chewed the inside of his cheek to distract the fluttering in his chest. Winced at the struggled groan the of Normandy’s landing.

It seemed a miracle. Impossible. Steve had given up the ship and its crew as yet another bright thing that had been torn from him. Lord knew he’d endured enough pitying looks whenever someone let slip who he was and where he’d been posted. One magazine had the nerve to label him as the ‘sole survivor of the Normandy’, and Steve had damn near punched a wall.

“Christ,” he heard the Major mutter. To the side, an anxious med-team checked their equipment and bounced on their toes.

And then, everything happened at once. The ramp lowered and thin marines pushed out two stretches bearing Garrus and Tali with a speed and desperation that did not bode well. The on-call medics darted forward as Doctor Chakwas jogged to keep up, and the sound of an ambulance siren already blared in the background.

Steve felt like screaming; those were his crew, his friends, and they were so thin and frail from where they lay under frantic care. His blunt nails cut into his palm.

Slowly, other figures stepped into view. Spectre Williams stood on top of the ramp and shook hands with every soldier that exited. Stone-faced and stubborn, her posture was neither bowed nor broken. Joker limped out, face lined and heavy and a gurgle of grief stirred in his gut. EDI, of course. Steve hadn’t even thought.

No sign of his muscle-head, though, and oh that made for anxious gnawing in his heart.

The came Traynor, tired but smiling, bless her resilience, alongside Gabby and Kenneth who walked hand in hand with white knuckles. Doctor T’Soni hovered a moment next to Williams. They shared words and a quick embrace, and Steve was thrown by how much grief and relief read in their bodies. 

_You arseholes,_ Steve thought to himself. _You beautiful arseholes, you’ve come home._

Javik’s expression was as dour as ever as he emerged from the Normandy, hounded by a loud laugh that made Steve’s heart skip. The prothean sneered half-heartedly, and staggered a step as a bulky figure pushed him toward the asari scientist.

Vega was impossible to miss, and he was laughing, _laughing_ as an unamused Javik paused awkwardly by Liara. James slapped his back when Liara turned to them and chased after Ashley to bump her shoulder.

Something wet slipped over his cheeks, and Steve realised he was crying. His crew, his friends, his ship; safe and mostly whole.

“Hey Esteban,” exclaimed Vega later, when Williams had given her report and the main crew were being shepherded into a bus to meet Admiral Hackett. “You even came to meet us. I’m touched.”

Vega’s hand felt warm on his neck, and Steve clapped the marine’s shoulder and leant in to press their foreheads together.

“Course I did,” he laughed wetly. “Couldn’t let anyone else drive you bunch of miscreants around.”

He felt James’ smile, his rumbling laugh, and Steve gave his thanks to any and all benevolent entities that might have been watching. _Oh, thank you._

“Don’t tell me you were worried?” Vega’s words ghosted in his ear before they pulled back. There were new scars along one cheek and a nick in his left ear, but James’ blunt features were blessedly whole and familiar.

“Only for a short moment,” Steve said through a crooked smile, caught by James’ gentle eyes and astounded that somehow they’d survived the war. The hand at his pulse lingered.

“Don’t let him fool you,” snorted Williams from the side, and her mouth was sly and sweet all at once. “James’ missed you something fierce. He was always moping in the cargo hold.”

“Hey, chica, no fair,” cried Vega, and a burning heat spread through Steve’s chest and over his aching bones.

“Likely he missed having a spotter to impress,” he shrugged, throat tight.

“Sure,” she said, leaving a lingering look at the two of them before boarding the vehicle. One glance at the man in question revealed all the red-faced glory Steve had hoped for; jittering shoulders and darting glance included.

“Go on, big guy,” Steve pushed Vega toward the door, marvelled at the feel of his thick shoulder blades beneath his palms. “You all have places to be.”

“And you’re the one to take us there?” Vega, looking over one shoulder to wink mischievously. “I’m game.”

Steve gave him another push, ignored his furious blush, and went to do his duty. Because he could. Because he wanted to. He was done being left behind.

.

.

“Glad we found you first, cuate.” James' teeth flashed white where he loomed over, and Steve blinked clumsily and tasted blood on his tongue. 

His leg was on fire and there were klaxons ringing at his temples. All he could see was red painted shadows and Vega's dirty face and brave smile. Split lips stung as he tried to talk, tried to ask about his shuttle and he had to get it back in the air to help fight and- 

and-

James was talking again, but Steve could no longer hear the words. Even his vision was failing as he desperately tried to read the words on Vega's tongue, but the big marine had already pulled away.

 _No,_ Steve cried, or tried to. _He could still help, still fight. Don't go._

But it was too late; Vega was gone back into the fray. Gone. Night crawled into his eyes and a fire-storm consumed his brain and Steve Cortez drowned in oblivion.

.

.

It was a hard thing, to look at the end of a war you expected to die in and not expect it to be a hoax.

Steve Cortez greeted the return of the Normandy and most of her crew like the blind man from Bethsaida after the touch of Christ. London was still grey and coated in dust; but he could see the cracks of life peering through. Two human youths sharing a cigarette, before offering the light to a nearby asari commando. A krogan and a turian shared drinks and war songs in the corner of a local pub. 

He did not remember how exactly Shepard’s crew had snuck out of the military barracks Hackett had confined them too. If Steve had to guess, he’d put his money on Doctor T’Soni’s remarkable ability to engineer a distraction and Williams’ determination to damn well make a toast for Shepard.

Tali and Garrus were still holed up in hospital, so of course, they all had to drink a round for them too.

It was rowdier than expected; a few pints and Traynor became loud and mouthy enough to knock even Vega off his throne as king of bullshitting. That girl was unstoppable when on a roll. Beside her, Joker spluttered stupid military puns between each boast, and laughed harder than anyone to fill up the spaces of silence at the table. They all noticed. None Commented. Williams surprised exactly no-one when she challenged Javik to an arm wrestle over a long standing argument, which led to a fierce betting pool led by Kenneth for the prothean and Liara for humanity’s second Spectre. 

Steve drank and laughed and cheered, but didn’t cry. They were here, they were back and he was so glad and grateful. He raised his pint again in a private, personal salute to their lost Commander, and downed the rest. A roar erupted demanding the contest to be the best of three.

_Here ends in sleep that is sweeter,_ Steve thought to her, _than tasks most noble._

Beside him, Vega flopped back to the bench to the victorious crowing of Traynor, who’d pulled her infamous toothbrush from God knew where and was beating her chest whilst declaring how it had taken down Cerberus single-handedly in perfect iambi pentameter. 

“Ah Esteban,” James lamented. “How can I be beat by a toothbrush?”

“Because you’re all brawn and no brain, my friend,” chuckled Steve. “At least where Traynor’s concerned.”

Vega threw up his hands, but he was laughing. 

It was hot where their arms were pressed together; Gabby was squished in on Steve’s other side and arguing with Joker about propulsion systems, Ken looking on with stars in his eyes. Steve reached forward to clumsily place his empty drink on the sticky table. When he leant back, Vega raised his arm up to give him room, only to rest it lightly over his shoulders.

Steve would have assumed it was a casual gesture, but the marine was deliberate in avoiding his gaze, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders were tense despite the calculated, relaxed slouch. A smile spread over Steve’s face as a warmth spread through his chest, and without a word he eased into Vega’s hesitant embrace.

James’ eyes darted to him then, bright red flaring over his cheeks and neck as Ashley demanded another round. It took a moment for Vega to relax, and a moment more to return Steve’s grin. 

_You’re here,_ Steve marvelled. _You’re back, thank you, I missed you._

Maybe his expression let on more then he’d intended, for Vega’s kind eyes softened again, and he brought up a hand to ruffle Steve’s hair and pull him in for a clumsy kiss to the temple.

They were both bright red after that, which of course Traynor noticed.

Steve did not mind. He didn't think Vega did either.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear GoddessTiara, thank you for this lovely assignment! I've never written either of these two characters, and I enjoyed it the more I wrote them.
> 
> I'm not great at jumping into a romance without the build up, so this is more sweet than romantic, and more of a culmination/lead up to a post war relationship between the two.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
